


The Difference Between Flying and Falling

by hannah_baker



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rough Sex, Spanking, amputee!Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 17:22:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannah_baker/pseuds/hannah_baker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six months after a nematon storm causes Stiles to crash his Jeep, he's finally adjusted to being an amputee. Derek, however, is still treating Stiles like he's fresh out of the hospital. </p><p>Or, the one where Stiles only has one leg (well, one and like, three-fifths), and Derek only wants to make love now. Much to Stiles' chagrin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Difference Between Flying and Falling

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I wrote this before S3 started (and obviously edited it to be relevant now I guess) but I've just been sitting on it for a while. IDK. It's time to get it out of my stack of unfinished things and publish it.
> 
> Also, I tried hard to be respectful, etc. But if you see anything I've written that is maybe brash or insensitive, I apologize. I understand that losing a limb is a complicated emotional process and I've never had to go through that. So know that going into this.

“Sorry I’m late,” Stiles said, pushing through the door to Scott and Allison’s apartment door. He brought pizza, much to Derek’s dismay. Because not eating pizza was going to help his leg grow back.

“If you bring me pizza I’m never mad,” Scott said, grabbing the box out of Stiles’ hands and setting it on the coffee table. They already had controllers out, and Allison was grabbing sodas out of the fridge.

“Derek didn’t come?” Allison asked, surprised.

“No, he actually didn’t,” Stiles said, agreeing with her exclamation. It’d been hard to shake Derek even for a second as of late. “He and my dad had to catch up on some paperwork. I think my dad has been trying to schedule them so one of them is always off work in case I need help, but it’s the end of the fiscal quarter or whatever.” It had taken Stiles longer to get used to Derek being one of his dad’s deputies than it had for him to get used to the fact that he only had one leg. Well, one and like, three-fifths.

“Well good for you,” Scott said, attempting to eat a slice of pizza and navigate through the menus for _Dead Dawn III: Brain Revenge_ for Super Melee Mode.

“Yeah. Good _god_ , between the two of them,” Stiles said picking up a slice for himself, “a man can never get any space. I woke up in the middle of the night last night to pee, and Derek fucking carried me to the bathroom. I’ve peed a million times in the middle of the night before, but he for whatever reason felt the need to fucking carry me there. And then he watched me pee and carried me back.”

“And you didn’t ask him not to?” Allison asked, selecting her character, then her gun.

“If you had ever tried to reason with Derek Hale at three in the morning when he’d just woken up, you would understand the impossibility of that attempt,” Stiles explained. The character he chose was a slight guy, with a pointy fox-like face, and very high speed. He paired him with a glock. “Plus Derek may be a beta now technically, but wake him up in the middle of the night and he’s pretty fucking Alpha Werewolf. Dude is five hundred percent muscle. Didn’t have a lot of options on not being carried to the bathroom.”

“Dude, he watched you pee?” Scott asked, mouth full of pizza.

“I know!” Stiles said. “It’s getting worse too. Like, I thought it would be the worst at first. Dad and Derek didn’t leave me alone for a second, and fine, I had a lot of injuries so it was justifiable. I did actually need help to the bathroom. But it’s been six months,” he took a bite of his own slice, shifted his prosthetic under the table a bit self consciously, “I’m as healed as I’ll ever be. And he babies me more and more every day. I don’t know what to fucking do about it.”

“Well,” Allison said, taking a swift shot that blasted through the heads of two zombies, “it is important to remember that he watched you almost die. And that he’s lost everyone he’s ever loved. You survived, and he wants to make sure that nothing bad is going to happen to you.”

“Yeah, dude, and he’s got survivor’s guilt too,” Scott added, his on screen character getting saved once again by Allison’s as he paid more attention to his food than his controller.

“Hey man, I survived. I’m here. I’m good,” Stiles said, ducking to avoid zombie teeth in his throat. He watched his character move swiftly, deftly, with accuracy and skill, and thought, though briefly and mournfully, about how he never would move like that again.

“Yeah, but Stiles, he heals, you know? If he had been the one driving when the fuckin nematon storm had hit, he’d be fine,” Allison said, running around toward Stiles’ area of the screen to save him this time, as Scott finally finished his slice. The three of them had felt it happen - the pull of the nematon was strong for all of them. Strong and dark. But the only time Scott had started getting into deep shit his body went into overdrive and healed. Stiles was now down a bit of his leg, and Allison had what looked like significant burn scars on her back from what Peter had thought had been harpies but Stiles was sure were grindylows.

“But he wasn’t. And I’m fine,” Stiles said, with a growl, his frustration coming both from his actual situation, and the growing number of zombies that were surrounding them. “We need to hit higher ground,” he said, and started leading them to an area with better protection.

“And you know he blames himself,” Scott said. Scott, over the past five years since they graduated from high school, had improved his relationship with Derek a lot. It helped that he and Stiles had been together since halfway through Stiles’ freshman year of college, but a lot of it happened on its own. They talked about stuff - werewolf brothers and all. Stiles still hadn’t gotten over it.

“He shouldn’t,” Stiles said, pursing his lips.

“But he does,” Allison said, looking away from the screen for a split second to meet Stiles’ eyes. “Everyone can see it. He still carries the guilt for the fire, which also wasn’t his fault. If you had died, Stiles-”

“I’m not dead!” Stiles yelled, frustration finally boiling over. “I’m not dead, and all he does is look at me like I’m dead and I can’t stand it.”

Allison shut off the game.

-

“Hey, you’re late,” Derek said from his perch on the living room couch. He could tell he wasn’t mad, just worried. Stiles checked his watch, thinking that it looked as though Derek had just been sitting there, waiting for him to get home. He’d changed out of his uniform, which Stiles was a little sad about because he still thought it was kind of sexy, but Derek never wore it for longer than he had to.

“I said I’d be home around six-ish, it’s six ten,” he said. “That’s not late. That _is_ ‘ish.’ That’s like, perfectly in-range.” Derek stood to greet him, hung up his jacket for him, put his keys on the hook. He pulled Stiles close to him and covered his face in little patient kisses.

“How was your day? Things were okay? The drive was fine?” he asked, holding Stiles’ face gently in his hands.

“Yeah, everything was good. Just pizza and video games. And Scott and Allison live ten minutes away. The drive was wholly unremarkable,” he said, trying not to be annoyed. Trying to remember what Scott and Allison had said.

“I’m about to start making dinner,” Derek said. “Healthy stuff for you,” he added, his gentle jab at Stiles’ lunch choices.

“Derek, I’m healthier than I was before the storm,” he said, heading into the kitchen to sit at the breakfast bar while he watched Derek cook.

“I know,” Derek said, pressing a brief kiss to the back of his head and giving his shoulders a squeeze before pulling out a few pots and pans. “I just want to keep you that way.”   
  
“I’m not going to die of a heart attack from a couple occasional slices of pizza,” Stiles said, huffing. Derek’s eyes snapped up at him.

“No,” Derek said gravely, “You’re not going to.”

“I lift three times a week. I swim almost every day. I haven’t eaten meat in like, two months. I have the fucking sexiest body that I have ever had, ignoring the fact that part of my leg isn’t there anymore. And you still treat me like I’m an animated corpse. What is wrong with me?” Stiles asked him, unable to keep his voice from cracking on the final few words. Derek frozen still at his inquiry.

“Nothing is wrong with you,” Derek said, his voice heavy and deep. He turned the stove off, leaving the pan of unboiled water alone, and moved around the counter to Stiles.

“Then why do you treat me like I’m defective?” Stiles asked, forcing himself to. He’d talked to Scott and Allison about how he was going to have this discussion - calmly and unemotionally. And here he was with tears in his eyes asking Derek why he was treating him like a broken china doll. Things could have gone more to plan.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Derek said. “I don’t want you to get stressed out or tired. I want to make things as easy as possible for you. I’m just trying to take care of you,” he said, two fingers tipping Stiles’ chin up to set their gaze.

Stiles’ relationship with Derek had never been like Scott’s with Allison. They’d never really done the sweet romance thing. There was trust and there was sex and there was comfort. Stiles knew that if he was hurting, Derek would make it stop and vice versa. But he wasn’t hurting anymore, and the gentle and delicate thing was throwing Stiles off.

“Come to therapy with me,” Stiles said, for the thousandth time. “Please. Listen to Gretchen explain why I need to do things for myself. You can tell her about your family. Maybe processing that will help you process this.”

“I don’t need to process anything,” he insisted, but Stiles could hear the lie in his voice. Stiles didn’t need wolf senses to tell when he wasn’t telling the truth, and Derek didn’t need a tell. He was just a terrible liar. “And I don’t do therapy,” Derek said, “you know that.”   
  
“I know that it could help you,” Stiles said. “I know that it would help us.”

“We don’t need to be in couple’s therapy,” Derek said, his voice quiet but intense. “We are fine.”   
  
“Derek, you don’t even trust me to make it to the bathroom in the middle of the night alone,” Stiles said.

“You looked sleepy,” Derek said. “I didn’t want you to fall.”

“I know,” Stiles said. “But I have a walker for that. And even if I had fallen, I would have been fine. I need to learn how to do things for myself. I need to prove to myself that I can do things.”

“I don’t like watching you struggle. I don’t like watching your pain. If I know I can help you avoid that I will,” Derek said, still not understanding.

“Der, I lost like, my foot and a bit of my leg. It’s not like I’m completely limbless. I’m 100% functioning. I really, honestly don’t need help and I don’t like being coddled,” Stiles explained. “You won’t even fuck me like you used to,” he said, his eyes dropping from Derek’s face. Derek was standing close, wedged between Stiles’ legs from his position on the breakfast bar stool. Stiles’ hands were resting on Derek’s hips, trying to find even a hint of softness in his stomach area. There was none.

“We still have sex all the time,” Derek said, his hands coming up to Stiles’ hair, sifting through his strands. It was getting a little long, kinda floppy on the top, which Stiles was finding Derek liked a lot.

“We have sex,” Stiles agreed. “Though mostly oral - not that I’m complaining. Like, dude, you give seriously the best blow jobs ever, not kidding,” he said, both completely telling the truth and also trying to make Derek feel a bit better. “But you haven’t fucked me since the accident. Six months I’ve been waiting for the kind of pounding that makes my ass sore the next day, and all I’m given is the delicacy of like, devirginization.”

“That’s not true,” Derek said, in his _I absolutely know I’m not telling close to the truth_ voice. “I still fuck you.”

“Derek,” Stiles said, his tone requesting honesty.

“I-” Derek started, sucking in a breath. “I don’t want to just fuck you,” he said, his voice coming out with a bit of difficulty. “I want to...”

“Yes?” Stiles prompted. Derek’s cheeks were turning uncharastically red.

“I want to make love to you,” he said quietly, twisting his face to the side to hide his embarrassment. Derek and Stiles clearly loved each other, but there wasn’t a whole lot of love making going on generally.

“Derek, I’m not going to die,” Stiles said, trying to reassure him.

“Of course you are,” Derek said. “We’re all going to die.”

“Well, obviously,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. He stood up to be closer to level with Derek, shifted to his toes - and his prosthetic - to press their foreheads together. “But not for a long long time. And not by your dick.”

“And I want you to know-”

“I know you love me. I’ve watched you love me every day for five years. More than that. You loved me when I was in high school, too. You don’t have to prove that to me by taking away every bit of pain in my life. Some pain is good, right? I miss bite marks in my collar bone, for instance. Slap marks on my ass. That makes me feel even more alive.”

Derek pulled him into a possessive hug - the kind that was maybe a little too tight - and kissed his forehead. “I miss that too,” he said.

Stiles struggled out of Derek’s iron-tight hug and kissed him - full on and hard - knowing that if they kept it up this way, he’d taste blood pretty soon. Derek broke their kiss quickly though, in favor of dipping to Stiles’ collarbone and nosing the collar of his shirt aside, fulfilling Stiles’ wish for bitemarks. Stiles squirmed in Derek’s firm grip, the mixture of pleasure and pain from the bite going straight to his dick.

“You’re sowing seeds you’re gonna have to reap, Mr. Hale,” Stiles choked out, breathy as he struggled for air. He’d missed Derek like this - passionate, wild, nearly careless. This was exactly what he wanted.

Derek picked him up under his ass and began carrying him to the stairway when he paused and looked up at Stiles. “Do you not want me to carry you? Do you want to do it?” Stiles could have cried. Derek Hale _listening_. It had taken a few tries, but at least he asked.

“You are free to carry me up the stairs as long as it’s in a fit of sexual passion,” Stiles told him, hoping for more such fits in the near future.

It felt different to be in Derek’s arms like this. Instead of feeling like a child, it made Stiles feel like the man he’d been six months ago, in the relationship he’d be in six months ago. Stiles liked when Derek took control, maybe manhandled him a little. The night before had been drawn out and mind-blowing (though very gentle) blow job that Derek had refused a return on, quickly jerking himself off alone in their adjoining bathroom. It had been a less than fulfilling sexual experience.

Now, instead of gently setting Stiles down on the bed, he tossed him, his slightly apprehensive face giving away the confidence of the throw, but Stiles was fine. And once he was on the bed (no standing for a while) he ditched his prosthetic, along with his shirt and pants, and the gel insert he wore to make wearing the prosthetic comfortable. He watched Derek dig around their dresser for a new bottle of lube while Stiles rubbed himself through the thin cotton of his boxer briefs.

Stiles’ mouth watered in anticipation for what was coming. Derek’s soft tongue on his hole. His calloused fingers opening him up, his slick, hard dick connecting them in a way that Stiles had never felt with anyone else. Derek tossed him the lube when he found it and stripped naked, never letting his predatory gaze leave Stiles. Those eyes _did things_ to Stiles. Specifically to his dick.

Derek stalked up the bed to Stiles and literally ripped his underwear off of him, a move that he hadn’t used since Stiles had been in college and Derek had been trying to impress him. It apparently still worked, Stiles’ exposed dick rock hard and flushed red, twitching as he watched Derek’s hands skim up his body, pulling him upright, their positioning meaning that Stiles was basically straddling Derek’s lap, his body weight supported solely by Derek’s brute muscle. Stiles clung to him, kissing him frantically, lips sore already with no end in sight.

Stiles kinda liked feeling tiny and weak in situations like this. It wasn’t in a damsel kind of way. Derek just liked to dominate, and Stiles just turned to jelly. It’s when he felt safest with Derek, like if a hunter crashed through their window right now Derek would do something heroic like rip the guy’s throat out with his teeth, and save them both.  

Though Stiles thought the way way it felt when their dicks finally brushed together was heroic enough for one night.

They weren’t going to draw this out. It wasn’t an orgasm thing, really. Derek dropped Stiles back to the bed and stuffed a pillow under his hips, giving his own erection a few pulls before he settled between Stiles’ legs and let a wet tongue explore his lover. Stiles gasped and moaned the same way he did before he’d lost his leg: unashamedly.

Slick fingers found him next, Derek’s tongue continued to help, and one of Derek’s large hands squeezed Stiles’ thigh - the one on his bad leg - and it felt like reassurance. Maybe a little like a promise. Mostly like an apology, though.

Derek had recently taken to stretching Stiles out within an inch of his life, to minimize his discomfort and maximize his pleasure. Tonight he didn’t. As quickly as he felt Stiles’ muscles relax, his fingers left.

Stiles paused only for a second after Derek’s fingers pulled out of him before scrambling onto his knees. Face-to-face sex was love making fodder. Stiles wanted to get fucked on his hands and knees. He wanted primal, animal instincts driving Derek’s dick into him.

Derek’s hands were all over his hips, his ass, his thighs, as he lined himself up and pushed in, a groan falling from his mouth as he collapsed onto Stiles’ back, his shallow thrusts not waiting for Stiles to give him the go. He spent a few seconds mouthing at the back of Stiles’ neck before straightening to his knees to really lay into Stiles.

His hand connected with the soft flesh of Stiles’ ass with a crack, and Stiles let out a throaty moan, hips jerking automatically back, impaling himself on Derek’s cock. “Fuck,” Derek breathed, the heady, specific scent of horny, needy Stiles filling his nostrils. “God, you should see the mark on your ass,” he said, hand coming back for a caress before leaving another.

Stiles hissed at the pain, but he dropped to rest his weight to his shoulders so he could snake his hand down to grab his dick. Derek’s ass smacks were practiced, and landed right where his hips hit with every thrust. When Stiles’ moans started to wane, Derek left another scorching red mark on his pale ass.

“Derek,” Stiles gasped, voice rough. Derek was pounding into him, leaning over Stiles’ body to grasp the headboard for support. “Fuck,” if Stiles was trying to get a message across, it failed, his voice crumpling into a moan more sharp and heady than the others. Stiles’ hand moved more quickly on his dick, and he forced his hips back to meet Derek’s thrusts, make sure that Derek was going as deep as he could.

He cried out Derek’s name as he came, mouth fumbling over the consonants, slurring the name in his own elated exhaustion. He could feel how his own orgasm was affecting Derek, how Derek’s hips stuttered against his ass, how Derek’s hand tightened its grip on his hips. He felt Derek’s body against his own prepare its orgasm, muscles tensing as he thrust into Stiles over and over until all he could do was crumple, his hips rolling abortive little thrusts as he came down from his high.

Derek pulled out without fanfare, grabbing a towel from their bedside and mopping them both down, folding it over and sticking over the wet spot Stiles had left. Usually they had forethought for that, and while Stiles mourned the thought of having to change the sheets before he could go to sleep, this kind of sex - the kind that held absolutely zero practical thought beyond _lover_ , and _fuck_ , and _orgasm_ \- was absolutely the best kind.

Derek let that lovemaking urge come back to him as he wrapped Stiles up into his arms, open mouthed kisses covering the back of his neck, nose burying itself into the short hairs on the back of Stiles’ head. Stiles caught one of Derek’s wandering hands in his own and tangled their fingers together, pressing a kiss to his thumb.

“Yeah, baby,” Stiles said approvingly, in a sleepy, fucked-out voice. “You gotta fuck me like that at least twice a week.”

“Mmmm,” Derek hummed into his neck. “I think I can work something like that out,” he agreed.

“And,” Stiles said, wiggling around to face Derek. “The super bonus is that not only am I not dead because of it, I’m also in possession of a pleasantly sore ass.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Fine, I was being ridiculous, of course you’re fine now. And I only hurt you in the ways you like.” Still, the way he placed kisses across Stiles’ face was so gentle and delicate that Stiles knew Derek was trying to bring balance to their night. One of Derek’s hands curled around behind Stiles, stroking down his spine to cup his red and smarting ass, his hands tender over Stiles’ skin; a sharp turn to how they had treated that same skin long minutes ago.

Stiles keened at the touch, pressing back into Derek’s hand while he tucked his face into Derek’s collarbone. He let Derek spank him both because it felt good in the moment, and also because it felt good after, when Derek meticulously took care of his raw skin, when he made sure that Stiles was fine.

Derek let them rest for nearly a half hour, petting over Stiles’ body as they talked about what was stressing out Derek (and Stiles’ dad) at work, and what Stiles was learning from Deaton. Finally Derek nudged them up, and they reclothed just enough to change the sheets and get around to making dinner, though the involved meal that Derek had been planning had turned into sandwiches that Stiles expertly crafted, slapping Derek’s hands away when he tried to put more mustard on his.

There was a palpable weight that had lifted, a static of overprotection that hovered feet above Stiles now instead of pressing directly onto his shoulders. He didn’t think that Derek would suddenly let him eat a dozen donuts or skip his lifting routine. But maybe he’d trust him enough to do the grocery shopping alone, or to not hover when they were in public.

And eventually shit would go back to normal. They’d deal with the nematon bullshit as it was doled out. And Derek would get annoyed with the socks Stiles left in front of the closet instead of quietly picking them up for him. And Stiles was very excited for that day. And a little convinced that he’d be seeing that day sooner rather than later.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, reblogging cute boys over on my [tumblr](http://hannahisawolf.tumblr.com).


End file.
